Intelligence about the people side of software testing & projects
by Fiona Charles

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Thursday, August 30, 2018

Problem-solving in the Wilderness - A Memoir of Friendship (Part 1)

"In
these times of wonderful revolution, and incalculable & sudden changes in
the fate of empires and the fortunes of individuals, the only good things of
which we can feel absolutely secure are the possession of our minds, & of
the esteem & affection of our friends."

-Maria Edgeworth to Etienne Dumont, 12 August
1815.

Tent Rocks, New Mexico

In June 2009 I flew to Albuquerque for
Jerry Weinberg and Esther Derby’s class in experiential session design. I
landed a couple of days early, partly because I’d flown from England and needed
to deal with jet lag, and partly to spend a little pre-arranged time with
Jerry.

On the morning of June 20th we had
planned to drive to Tent Rocks, a national monument with bizarre and wonderful
rock formations. But it was raining, and threatening more rain. Jerry said the
canyons could be dangerous and he wanted to see if it cleared before we went.

The sun shone bright after lunch, so we drove
to Tent Rocks and set out on a loop hike into the canyon. A light rain started again almost immediately. We
walked for a while, but there were some very narrow passages with high sides—okay
to walk through usually, but they’d be traps in a flash flood. And there were
several tiny canyons running down the mountains, and feeding into our canyon on
either side. We met a lot of people coming in the opposite direction and one of
them said there was a storm coming over the ridge. Jerry said the biggest
danger is rain above you, which can suddenly turn to flash floods several feet
deep rushing down the canyons, and it wouldn't do for us to be in a place where
we couldn't climb to higher ground quickly. He couldn’t do anything like that
quickly, so we stopped and went back. Of course the rain stopped too, once we
were almost back at the start.

Jerry leading the way in the canyon

Feeling a little cheated and still in the
mood for an excursion, we didn’t want to drive back tamely the way we’d come. The
good gravel road we’d entered the park on continued past the hiking trails, so
Jerry thought we could drive on through and come home that way. We met a
ranger who said he thought the road would be ok. He told me the Navajo name for
the place and got me to say it a couple of times.

The really good road!

At first the road was indeed excellent gravel,
but it soon turned to rocks and dirt and Jerry put the Jeep into 4-wheel drive.
It became an adventure drive like a couple we’d done together before: happily jolting
along on a "primitive" road without a map. Jerry adored difficult
drives and the scenery was glorious. There were good bits of road, and then
bad. Some of it was extremely challenging, with deep cracks and potholes and large
rocks. A fallen tree partly blocked the way at one point. For a while, we drove
alongside a sharp drop off a steep cliff.

After some time, the road became less
definite. It was harder and harder to tell if the faint track we were following
was road at all, or if we'd missed the way when it branched. We knew that
homeward bound had to be downhill out of the mountains, but we kept climbing
steadily. As Jerry drove carefully on through the forest of thinly spaced
trees, I watched out the windows for any tracks that looked as if they might possibly
be roads.

Eventually
we had to acknowledge that we’d reached a point where there really was no road
in any direction. We hadn't met a soul or seen a car since talking to the
ranger, and apart from very occasional horse poo and a single soft drink can,
there’d been no signs of civilization whatever. With only two or three hours to
sunset, we were getting a bit concerned.

We stopped to consider our state and our options.
We were out of cell phone range. We didn’t have a compass. We weren’t in any
present danger, but driving a rough track near cliffs after dark would be risky
and foolish. Whatever we did, we might not make it out of the woods before
dark.

We devised a contingency plan. There was
plenty of bottled water in the back of the Jeep and a somewhat grubby cotton
quilt. We had a few hard candies. If we were forced to sleep in the vehicle, we
could keep warm and hydrated. In that eventuality, Jerry would try before dark to place the
bright red Jeep somewhere where it could be seen from below if
anyone came looking for us.

Obviously,
spending the night in the wilderness had nothing to recommend it but possible
necessity. Jerry was most anxious that Dani wouldn’t know where we were. An
incorrigible urbanite, I was anxious at being lost in the woods and I was also
worried about Jerry, aware that he was in pain and not feeling his best. We
needed to make a decision and get moving.

Jerry never liked backtracking. On any of
our road trips I could never convince him we should go back to the diner or
motel we’d just passed. However hungry we were, however late in the day, he always
wanted to press on in the certain (though rarely realized) hope that we’d
happen on another, better one just down the road.

This time going back seemed the only prudent
thing to do. So we agreed to turn around—not easy in that space—and try to retrace
our tracks. Jerry had to drive. He was tired and unwell but he was an experienced,
skilled off-road driver. I’d driven the Jeep on challenging mountain roads, but
I’d never driven off road nor in 4-wheel drive—and I had the better eyesight.

At first we stopped frequently for me to
squat down and scan the dry ground closely for something resembling our tire
tracks. I continued peering intently out the open window as they became clearer.
It was a considerable relief when we finally knew we were on the right track
back to the park. Once, we came to a road going in the other direction that
Jerry said his instincts told him would take us down the mountain and out. We
did discuss taking it, but agreed it was better to go for a sure thing at that
point. Arriving at the park gates just before dusk, we saw 5 mule deer silhouetted
against the sky and several jackrabbits on the hill. On the road, the sunset
and the light on the mountains were gorgeous and when we were back in town and
looking for a restaurant I spotted a coyote.

Dinner was BBQ, of course.

Back in my B&B that evening, I
reflected gratefully that despite all that mutual anxiety we hadn’t wasted
energy on tetchiness, but had unhesitatingly moved into total problem-solving
mode, discussing our options calmly and making decisions together with humour
and mutual respect and trust. I wasn’t about to recommend getting lost in the
wilds of New Mexico to anyone, but I couldn't think of many people I'd have trusted
or felt as safe with in similar circumstances.

The day had ended well, but I decided that
I wouldn’t go off-road again with Jerry unless I could confidently take over
and drive us away if he became ill. So I demanded that he teach me. Jerry
harrumphed and said “perhaps”, but on our next road trip he directed me into a
relatively easy off-road stretch and talked me through the rudiments. Later, we
took a rough back way into Chaco Canyon and I got more practice. I completely
got the allure. In 4-wheel drive on tough terrain, the Jeep felt like
nothing I’d ever driven and I loved it.

After
Jerry’s death, I read a blog post suggesting that he had somehow lacked the capacity
for friendship. Gobsmacked, I thought, “Well, that was your experience. It was
certainly not mine, and I’m sure it wasn’t the experience of many others.” Au
contraire, Jerry had an extraordinary capacity for friendship. I know of many
people who loved him and rightly called him friend, and there are many more I
don't know. That love wasn't one-sided. He had an unusually large number of real
friends: deep friendships of the heart and mind. Many of us began with Jerry’s
books, workshops or mentorship. Each unique friendship grew in its own way and
through its own interactions.